


North of 86th Street

by miztrezboo



Category: Twilight Series - Stephenie Meyer
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Blow Jobs, Frottage, Infidelity, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-09
Updated: 2011-03-04
Packaged: 2018-09-13 09:42:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9118189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miztrezboo/pseuds/miztrezboo
Summary: They hid who they were when being gay meant overtly happy, one followed his heart, the other hid from himself.





	1. 1954

**Author's Note:**

> Ilsuocantante or the Wearer of Words beta'd this, she's awesome. As always, insert Standard Disclaimer - recognizables belong to Stephanie Meyer and companies mentioned, as well as the fantastic Mad Men tv show on AMC that rocks my world with its epicness.

"You know, I read that smoking is bad for your health," I whisper, my eyes focused on his long, dexterous fingers as they tug at the latest in polyester cotton blend ties. Green. Always green to match his eyes. He must have thirty or forty different ties in various shades from Granny Smith to Forest Pine.

"In that Reader's Digest magazine?" he says with a laugh. The red cherry of his cigarette hangs from the side of his mouth and dims with his outburst. His fingers finish sliding the shiny material free of the Windsor knot it's always in.

Four years working in the same office together; it's the little things I notice.

I lay my jacket over the arm of the dark leather wingback chair that is the only comfortable piece of furniture—other than the bed—in the room. Simple. Stark, yet elegant. A bachelor's pad for a man who is anything but.

"Yes, but McCarty was working on the Lucky Strike account, they have a research team on it right now." I feel slightly put out at how easily he discounts my statement, and the indignation echoes in my snappy tone.

"Jasper," he says my name softly, squashing the rest of his half-smoked cigarette into the silver ashtray on the side table. The emerald tie he was wearing now hangs limply on either side of his white, starched lapels. He walks over to where I am standing by the small wet bar and takes the tumbler of scotch from my fingertips. I focus on his shoes, not wanting to meet his eyes because I know my reaction was out of place.

Size fourteen, still black and shiny with a slight scuff on the outside of the right from where he rolls his feet when he walks. I can almost see my face in them, but the light from the floor lamp beside me isn't all that bright. It's more ambient than anything.

"Jay, look at me." I can't resist. I've never been able to resist. Even when I thought he was just interested in me as a friend, way back when we had our first after work drink with the so-called magic man of our department, Carlisle Cullen. I look up now–much as I did that evening when we were on our own catching a bite before hitting the bar–and see those same green eyes staring back at me.

"You know I didn't mean it like that, doll." His cupid's bow lips, a little red still from the brisk fall air on our walk here, quirk up at the sides.

I roll my eyes. "'Doll', Edward? I'm not that earnest looking assistant of yours." His hands slide up and over my waistcoat as he steps between my legs. I can feel his breath warm over my lips as the tip of his nose grazes the side of mine. His eyes sparkle mischievously, and with a tug on the lapels of my shirt, he's forcing my head to lift to his.

His lips brush mine, soft, sweet and barely there, and my heart, that always beats to its own _cha cha_ staccato when we're alone together, jumps into action. I groan and let my tongue explore the plump flesh of his bottom lip. Malt and toasted tobacco are all I can taste, but it's not enough. My hands lift from where they'd been limp at my sides and I grab at the belt loops of his pants and pull his hips toward me. Edward's mouth opens, and I take a strange comfort from the familiarity of our tongues sliding against one another. We've played this game before – so many, many times – yet every kiss feels like the first.

His hands, those elongated fingers that should be playing over ivory and ebony keys at some piano bar, slide into my hair at the base of my neck as he tilts my head to a more appropriate kissing angle. The embers of my desire are stoked to life; the slow burn of lust and want is warming my entire body.

He smirks against my lips as I fumble and take what feels like hours to get his belt undone. As I pull the black leather from its hold around his waist, he is exploring the length of my neck, nipping at my jaw line and whispering my name against my ear.

"Too long," he says. "We shouldn't have waited."

I nod, because it's all I can do as I'm pushing his pants and his pleat-perfect pressed boxers to the floor. I feel it too. I feel the ache in my chest, our time together having been so few and far between. I feel the rush of blood, the happiness zipping around my body now that we are here, in this room, for what could possibly be the last time.

But I can't focus on that now. I need to keep my head here, consumed with the fact that he is with me, that we have this moment and for now he is mine. As much as I am his.

I hear the slight metal clink of my tie clip being placed on the bar behind me and then Edward is undoing my tie – blue today because he likes me in blue. It's the same reason I wore the charcoal suit, he likes me in these colors, and today I wanted to make it all about him.

Who am I kidding? I dress every day for him. From the stockings that cover my feet to the latest in felt fedoras that cover my wheat colored curls. It's always about him, just as much as the ties he wears are always about her. I drop to my knees once he has my tie on the ground, my waistcoat pushed off my shoulders, and the top four buttons of my shirt undone. I don't want to let the reason why we're here enter my mind, not while we're here in our space. It takes a moment for me to get his shoes off. He chuckles as I toss the offending nearly canoe sized articles over my head and I hear the soft swish of his button down float to join my clothes on the floor.

I'm slightly annoyed he's undressing himself more than I've been able to. It's something I may never get to do again, but if it helps us start our night, I can't complain too much. I glide my palms up the outside of his calves, the dark hair that covers most of his body – especially his legs – tickles my skin with how coarse it is. It's when I'm kneeling that my eyes meet a particular long lost friend of mine, bobbing and blushing pink – almost berry in front of me.

A moan slips from my lips as my tongue peeks out to capture that small pearl of his desire that beads on the head. I hear Edward's soft groan above me as his fingers entangle with my close-cropped curls – only grown out a little at the moment because he asked me not to get my usual cut. My fingers press into the taut muscle of his ass, pulling him closer as I brush my cheek up and down his hardening length. I love feeling how smooth and hard he can be all at once on the side of my face. It feels so personal, being this close to him, having him this close to me, and knowing that I'm the only one he's ever had like this, the only man he's let touch him here.

As I press my lips once more to the head of his dick, I move my hands to the front of his stomach. My name is mumbled in the quiet space that surrounds us – being up on the twentieth floor has its benefits – and the sounds of the busy New York streets are too far away to hear. I let his undershirt gather over my hands as I shift up his body, indentations of hard earned muscle going soft from the drinks we've partaken in over the years. I continue slowly until he has to raise his arms, letting me pull the material from his chest and then it too joins the pile at our feet. His hands grip the sides of my face tightly and his lips are harsh and needy against my own. He's squeezing my cheeks a little too tightly but I say nothing because I know it's a sign of how much he wants me.

How much he _always_ wants me.

I'm slipping my shoes off as my hand slides between us, palming his length, relishing the feel of the warm skin in my hand that shifts up and down with my every movement. Edward moves us back toward the bed as his teeth and tongue assault my lips. His eyes are dark and intense – reminding me of the malachite stone Carlisle brought back from his trip to New Mexico last year. All deep greens with black and dull golds swirling in their depths. I wonder if he can see how much I feel for him, how much I want to be here… how much I don't want to let him go.

He's twitching in my hand as the back of my legs meet the mattress, then I'm lying on top of it, with Edward on all fours over me. His lips travel down my neck, over newly revealed skin with each button he deftly maneuvers out of the way and I am glad I forewent my regular cotton shirt. I was so excited about tonight that I had forgotten my briefcase as I'd left for work and I had to turn around when I reached the train station to go back for it. I'd been a little later than normal and Old Man Masen had given me a talking to after our meeting with the Liberty Bell people. It had all been worth it though, because I ended up here with Edward.

The Edward I couldn't call mine because he wasn't anymore.

Not that he had ever been to begin with.

I have to let go of him now as he presses his wet lips to my stomach and I run my hands up and down the toned muscle of his back and his broad shoulders. I love how masculine he feels and looks. Edward unzips my pants and drags them down my legs, tearing them off my feet and I slide my hand up and down my length, needing some sort of relief from the ache that resides there. Edward licks his lips, his own hand dipping between his legs and cupping his sack, rolling and squeezing and the sight of him touching himself how I want to be touched – how I want to touch him – is almost too much. I half sit up and he shakes his head.

"Stay there, I just… I just need a minute to look at you."

I nod and acquiesce, placing one hand under my head as a makeshift pillow while the other still squeezes over my cock. I want his hands on me. I want my hands on him. As much as I'm enjoying the view and love that his eyes are roving my body – the anticipation at what lies ahead for us both is almost too much. The more he watches, the more I hear the soft sounds of his need, the more mine rapidly approaches.

"Ed, Edward… I'm going to- "

I don't get to finish because his voice is all raw and sexy as he tells me he's close too. He stands and I lay and we watch each other. I commit to memory every detail of his pleasure. The way he lets his right thumb brush over the head before his fist tightens on the downward stroke. The way the auburn curls that smatter lightly across his chest and darken in that trail I've often followed with my tongue to the thatch where they grow thickest at the juncture of his legs. The way his bottom lip trembles with every sigh he releases, and somehow becomes lodged under his perfect white teeth when he breathes in.

My hips rise slightly from the bed as I grip my dick and pump myself in time with Edward. His eyes return to mine and they are all I can see as his jaw goes slack, an overly loud grunt falling from his lips as he comes in a wide arc. Warm ejaculate falls in lines on my thighs and lower stomach and I call his name as I find that blissful plateau myself, jets of hot white mix with the already cooling mess on my body as I fight for breath.

Edward crawls onto the bed beside me, pulling me close and seeming not to care about the mix of us both that is congealing in sticky globs between us as he wraps me in his arms. His lips meet mine and this time our kiss is slow and languid. Full of words unsaid. Phrases unspoken and we lie there long after it's uncomfortable, for we are comfortable in just being together.

~~ _ **Wedding Announcement~~**_

Saturday the 15th October 1954

Edward Anthony Masen weds Isabella Marie Swan

St Thomas More Catholic Church

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* * *


	2. 1964

He's pacing the room, back and forth, forth and back and the lights outside the window sparkle from the new high rises that crowd the Upper Manhattan skyline. I can see how tense he is from the set of his shoulders. From the fact he's smoking one cigarette after the other, beginning well before I arrived if the amount of butts in the same silver ashtray are anything to go by. He hasn't said a word since I entered, not even when I offered him a drink. He just pulled at his tie – mint green with fine silver stripes – and continued his pacing.

I took off my jacket, loosened my own tie and started sipping my vodka. I wasn't a scotch man anymore. Not since… well, not for a long time.

"She knows."

He speaks and I find myself jumping like I'd sat on a pin in reaction.

"What?" I ask, even though I'm fairly certain of the she and what it is she apparently has knowledge of.

"Bella. She knows. I'm sure of it."

I swirl the ice in my glass, happy to feel the burn of the clear liquid as I take a larger than normal sip. He's overreacting. He has to be because we've been careful.

"How would she know, Edward?"

He tugs at his hair and pulls another cigarette out of the silver case that I bought him the first Christmas after… this, whatever it is began. Edward's tapping it nervously on his palm, it's a nervous tic and it's slightly worrying to see him this out of control. He turns to me, those green eyes flashing with emotion. He's scared and upset and somehow I think I'm going to be the one wearing his wrath.

"She just _does_ , Jay. She does." His hand shakes as he flips the lighter over and over again, the spark not catching, until finally he pitches it across the room. I flinch as it smashes against the wall and leaves a divot in the wallpaper that I only had redone a month before.

I raise my glass to my lips and finish what's left before pouring another and drinking it just as quickly. Now it's my hand shaking, the glass tumbler rattling against the silver holder as I attempt to pour a third. Before I realize that he has moved, Edward's hand is covering mine, he's turning my body toward his and enveloping me in his arms.

"I'm sorry, Jay. I'm sorry," he murmurs into my hair, and he holds me and I hold him.

We just stand there, chest to chest, as close as two people can be in clothing and I can feel him slipping away even though there is no physical space between us.

I should be happy that I've had him this long. That even though he got married and that he lives with her, this apartment that was once ours is mine and three times a week at least he's spent it here with me. She thinks it's the new account the firm has taken on keeping him back late. Air travel is all the fashion now and TWA are introducing in-flight movies. The art department has been working closely with the copy men on this, which means we've had ample opportunities to be alone together.

Although, I'm not sure our 'working together' is supposed to include us both naked in various settings and scenes.

My nose rests in that hollow between his shoulder and his neck and I'm breathing in starched collar and musk. He smells just the way he always does, but this time I'm drinking him in even more. I want his scent ingrained in my skin. I want the feel of his flesh pressing against mine in the most pleasurable of ways. I want his marks, his presence upon me, able to be seen and not just a memory hours and days later.

I don't want this to be over.

I don't want to let him go.

No words are spoken as he strips me of my clothes. His eyes, those clear green windows to his soul are locked on mine and I let him pull and tug at fabric until there is nothing left to take. Not one stitch and I feel as raw on the inside as I am on the out.

But I don't care.

I'm tugging his tie free, and quickly unbuttoning his shirt, slipping it off his shoulders as his lips meet the underside of my jaw. Sighs and soft sounds drift in warm lazy circles around our forms as he's dropping to his knees and I can't even breathe when his lips meet the head of my cock.

Then there's warmth and wet and he's taking me in so deep that I shudder and the bottles behind me clink with the movement. Still his gaze is burning deep into mine as my fingers wind into the burnished bronze of his stylishly combed hair and mess it up even though I know he hates that. I don't care, I just want to take from him because he's taking everything from me.

The flat of his tongue curls around the tip and his lips are twitching at the side with a smile as I whimper. Edward has such beautiful bone structure, his razor sharp cheekbones hollow and fill as he slides me in and out of his mouth. His lips are berry red as his hands are gripping my ass and pulling me closer. I want to be closer, I want to be closer still.

I want to leave a mark on him, and have him leave a mark on me. I want to keep him but I know that right now, even as the tip of my dick is touching the back of his throat and then being squeezed tighter as he swallows me down, that this isn't forever. This is just a moment. A last moment.

The goodbye is killing me even though it hasn't been spoken.

I'm so close but I don't want to finish this way. I want more, I want to make this last and last, and with what he's doing to me I know I won't. His hand is sliding between my legs and teasing my entrance with one finger. It's been so long – days – but it feels longer since Edward's touched me like this and I'm on the precipice and falling and I hate that I've gotten here so fast.

He's swallowing me whole and I can feel hot tears on my cheeks as I come hard in short thrusts into his mouth. I'm trembling as I reach for his cheek, needing to feel him in some tangible way. Edward's tongue peeks out to run slowly over his lips, left to right and top to bottom. It crosses my mind that he's making sure he leaves no evidence but I shake that off as I fall to the floor and crush my mouth against his own.

It takes me minutes with my shaking fingertips to unbuckle his belt then I'm throwing it behind me and listening to hit something with a metallic thud. He's rough, but I'm rougher, pushing and needling his mouth with my tongue and leaving no territory uncharted. Edward's perfectly shaped nails are digging into my chest, scratching and tearing at my skin. I say nothing, only shove him backward onto the scratchy pile carpeting.

I'm pushing his pants down with my hands then feet as his teeth scrape over where his fingers have been before. Still we don't speak. The only sounds that filter through the recycled air around us are gasps and groans and combined with touch – they say everything that we cannot.

Finally, Edward is kicking his legs free and his hands are on my waist, pulling my body close so I can feel his cock rubbing against mine, which already is starting to harden once more. I prop myself up and look between us, watching as we shift against each other. I can't tear my eyes from the blushing pink of his foreskin sliding back and forth revealing the inner purple head and slit where his arousal is seeping freely.

It's making me hot, making that familiar tightening of sensitive skin thicken and engorge as he flips us over and grinds his length against mine. My dick is sandwiched between his and my stomach and I'm holding him – anywhere… everywhere… just to _hold_ him close. Fingertips pawing at slick, sweat covered skin – the rolling curve of his hip, the sharp line of his shoulder blade, the hollow that is made for my tongue to explore at the base of his throat. He's salt and bitter cologne and something sharper… my mind skips over what I know is her perfume because that would mean she's held him close, as close as I am now and I refuse to let her take away from our moment.

Edward slows it all down, slowing us down and his hands cup my face, the tip of his nose brushes mine back and forth, up and down as he just _looks_ at me.

And I look at him.

I'm trying to memorize every single quirk and difference that makes him _him_. I want to see it all, know it all – from the thin scar in his right brow where he fell off his bike when he was ten, to the tiny blemish on his bottom lip. It's the slightest of slight discolorations, but I know these things, I know them and I need to remember them all. He's staring at me with such intensity that the normally grass green irises that are mixed with a shade of grey are now shot with golds and ringed with black making the rest pop.

We're locked in this staring contest and neither of us have blinked. I'm counting the lashes on his lower lids, one more on the left than the right which could be an anomaly or it could just be that I'm looking for something that isn't there.

I know it's there. We can't have done this for so many years now that there isn't something.

His thumb draws lazily over my lips and I'm brought back from the brink of saying something I shouldn't to the here and now. Edward inches forward, kissing me soft and sweet and all the while we're just looking at each other and letting our eyes express everything we feel.

Tongues tangle and teeth knock as his hand slips between our bodies and he's holding us and I'm holding him. We shift and rock and touch and then it's _my_ name falling from his lips and it's _my_ arms he's falling into. We lay there together, and yet I've never felt so alone.

**~~ Inter Office Memo ~~**

Attention all staff: Ed Masen Jr. and his family will be transferring to the newly developed Los Angeles office as CEO. We would like to wish Mr. Masen, his wife and their son all the best as they settle into their new lives on the West Coast. All further Creative Department inquiries are to be directed to…

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* * *


	3. 1968

"I'll see you later tonight, then?" She sounds distracted and I know it's either Garrett or the baby making her that way. She's at six months now and just like with our last child, she's needy for something that I can't give her. And tonight, I'm glad that our strange three person relationship works, because Garrett is there and he'll cater to her every whim.

I must have waited too long to give her an answer because she's sighing and then the noise of our daughter singing along to the Brady Bunch theme is echoing down the line. "What's Lizzie doing up so late?" I ask, attempting to steer the conversation away from what I'm sure will yet again be another thinly veiled crack at what I'm doing here.

What I shouldn't be doing here.

"She's fine, its only one night. It _is_ only one night, isn't it?"

I sigh rubbing my forehead and stare out our window that has less and less view of the city with more buildings that seem to pop up daily. "Yes, I'll be home tomorrow in time for supper."

I know Alice can hear the lie in my tone, but she makes her goodbyes and I hang up the phone. She knows he's here for a week. She knows that even though we haven't spoken since he left for LA, that I still have feelings for him. She knows that even though she is my wife, and that Garrett is our boyfriend or live-in lover or whatever label society deems fit; that I still can't get Edward out of my head.

Nor do I want to on most days.

I may have married Alice in the beginning because it was basically required by the company to do so to move up in the world. And yes, I was now the Head of Creative and had the dinner parties that everyone talks about, but I still wanted what I couldn't have. I was happy with Garrett, he was fun and flirty and he loved Alice and me equally. He and I were so alike in so many ways, his sandy hair, the grey blue of his eyes – even his shoe size was the same as mine. I loved him, he loved Alice and we all worked together, playing our parts so society was none the wiser.

Times were changing though, and our relationship – although not perfect to some – was perfect for us. Garrett and I could walk down the street holding hands; kiss if we wanted to even. Alice had someone to love her more than just emotionally and give her the family she wanted. We were unconventional, yet conventional at the same time.

We were happy.

Yet I held onto my apartment that had once been ours. I stayed there from time to time and lay in our sheets on our bed, and drank scotch from his tumbler because I couldn't let him go. I ignored the yearly staff newsletter and any paper that would cross my desk with his name on it. I didn't know about his family expanding, three daughters and a son. I didn't know that he had worked for the London office for a time, helping with the merger between his father's company and Makenna Advertising.

I didn't see in photos that were sent that he was starting to turn grey at the temples, and that he had more lines around his eyes from all that warm West Coast sun.

I didn't see that his eyes looked vacant, like he was there but wasn't at the same time.

And I didn't wonder if he missed me, or thought about me.

Because that I knew, he didn't.

"Jay,"

A voice I would know anywhere calls from behind me, slightly muted from the wood of the door.

My cigarette shakes between my fingers as I hear the key turn in the lock.

He never gave it back.

I suck in a lungful of what is probably going to send me to the grave and I can smell him as soon as he enters the room.

Burnt caramels of the cigars he now smokes (he always has one in hand in _every_ publicity shot), the familiar Old Spice cologne (that I wear to remind myself of him) and that underlying dark scent that is _my_ Edward. I choke and splutter on the combined effects of him and smoke in my lungs and before I know it, he's hitting my back and holding my arm to steady me.

"Those things are bad for your health."

I smile even though I don't want to because his sentiment reminds me of something I had said to him long ago and the fact that he is here touching my skin.

Edward is here, touching my skin.

The realization shocks me and as much as I want to move away, I'm leaning in. I'm pressing myself against him and letting him turn us so that I'm in his arms and he's holding me like it hasn't been seven years since he's done so.

And I don't care. I don't care how many years have passed, how many of my phone calls and letters have gone unanswered. I don't care that even when he was in town on business or even in the same building as me that he never once spoke my name or said a hello in passing. I don't care about any of these things because this is right, and what I've been missing.

His warm breath tickles against my ear as his hold tightens. "I've missed you," he whispers and I nod because there is a lump in my throat.

I cough once more as he tilts his head, nuzzling against my neck and then his lips are brushing my jaw and cheek. My eyes close because if I see him, if I look into those jade green depths, I will be lost. Right now, I can pretend that no time has passed and it's just us, how we used to be.

"You smell different." He pulls back, gripping my arms lightly with his hands, and I open my eyes because it's not what I expect to hear.

I shrug my shoulders. "It's been awhile," I mumble and focus on his lips, stupidly thinking looking there instead of his eyes will be easier.

It's not.

They're worn with the time that has passed. They're still that same berry red that I have imagined countless times forming my name as my body surges with impending release. Now there's this brownish stain to one side from the cigars and cigarettes. They've permanently marked him as he has permanently marked me. I only smoke because he did. I only drink scotch because he did. The cologne, the silver pocket watch, the occasional green tie once a year on the day that he left... all for him.

Because of him.

I wonder if he's even cared how much being apart has affected me. So I ask.

"What are you doing here?"

His hands are brushing up and down my arms now, a soft yet firm touch and I like to think he's remembering all the times he's done that before. Remembering me. Remembering us.

"I didn't know you'd be here."

"You didn't even knock." His lips quirk at the side and I know I'd see the humor in his gaze but I can't look up. Not yet.

"I did, you must not have heard me. It's so good to see you, Jay."

My name. That version of my name that no one but he has ever called me produces an ache in my chest that has nothing to do with how much I've missed him in my life. This is hurt and pain, regret and disappointment.

"Ed-" I start then stop because it is physically painful to say his name. I've avoided it for so long and now he's here and I don't know why and it doesn't make sense.

"Oh," he mumbles and then the heat that he's produced from just touching me, being here is gone as he steps back and away. I watch as his lips slide out of view, blurring until it's his face I see and then his eyes slowly come into focus.

They're still the same shade of green and grey that I remember. They're inquisitive and quiet. Just like the man that is using them to look at me. To stare at me with one hand lying idly at his side while the other fumbles in his breast pocket until a familiar looking cigar is produced. He bites off the end and for one moment, I remember something else of the same shape and slightly larger size being in that very same position.

My dick takes matters into its own hands and hardens at the thought.

I don't want to be hard around him. I don't want him to affect me the way he does. He's been gone for too long. He held my heart in his hands and did nothing with it in all this time.

"Why are you here?" I ask when I finally find my voice and can stop watching him pat down every pocket he has. His brow furrows and he's chewing on the end of the cigar and I realize it's not lit.

His lighter.

The one in my pocket that I've used ever since I found it behind the bedside table when I'd bought a new set. It had been one of the few pieces of him that I'd had that weren't tainted by _her_. It was evidence of us, much like the divot in the wall that I'd never let the painters fill. Even after all these years and many decorating changes.

I pull the silver Zippo out of my pocket, flicking it open and offering him the flame. He smiles around the Cuban and yet again, I felt a tightening in my shorts as he puffs the cigar into life. Edward was always so very good at sucking cock.

"I was in town, I thought... I don't know what I thought." He sighs, throwing himself in the armchair while I pour myself a drink. I slam it down and pour myself another.

"Should I not have come?" he asks tentatively, his voice trembling slightly over the words.

"No," I answer, far too quickly for my dignity but all the same, it's what I want to say.

"Oh, good." He smiles and his eyes do too.

God, he is still so handsome.

We are quiet and instead of it feeling awkward, the silence is welcome. It gives me time to organize all the questions I have into some type of order. Yet, I have so many that before I can pick one to start with, he's talking.

"How's Alice?" And I choke on my drink a little.

I nod my head and try to swallow. "She's good. She's happy. How did you-"

"Inter office memos. Even out in LA it was gossip how my ex-secretary landed Stanley and Masen's most eligible bachelor. After me of course," he adds with a grin.

I laugh because we had never been 'eligible bachelors', not since the third month that we had worked together at the firm.

"You two have kids?" Edward asks, puffing on his cigar. His cheeks hollow and fill and I'm mesmerized until he smiles and I shake myself out of it.

I nod. "Lizzie's four and another due in a few months." I swirl the drink around my glass and finally remember to offer him one with a tilt of my head toward the bottle. He nods in return and my fingers buzz when they brush his as I hand him the glass.

"I'm surprised Alice let you out of the house." He chuckles.

I shrug. "Garrett is there with her, he's the only one she needs right now. I'm just Mr. Back and Foot Rubs."

His eyes flick up over his glass as he takes a sip, and for a moment-just a moment-I think I see jealousy in his stare. Then it's gone, replaced by that familiar vacant look I've seen in all his photographs and I tell myself it's my imagination gone wild.

"Garrett?" he asks and the tone, I know it's not just in my head. There's nothing he can hide from me in that voice.

"He's our..." I struggle to find the right word. Boyfriend? We've been with him now for five years, it's a lot more than that. Partner? He is that, to both of us, yet still it doesn't state who he is and what means to us both. Lover? Again, not enough. I love him, Alice loves him. He loves us.

"He's part of our life. He lives with us, well, on the bottom floor of our brownstone. But that's just for a appearances, I guess. I mean, it's not like people don't know that I'm with him. They also know he's with Alice too, there's no mistaking that Lizzie is his. Or this new baby, Alice thinks it's a boy. She's trying out all these different fortune telling things, some natural therapies or something that she thinks will make the baby's sex definite this time around. She wants to stop at two if this one is a boy. A picture pair or whatever..." I stop when I realize I'm rambling and Edward hasn't made a sound.

I look in his direction, finally focusing on where I'd been staring above before and his face, it's not jealousy, it's not happiness, it's not even that empty stare. This is different.

This is... this is him _appalled_?

"What?" I ask as the quiet stretches between us and it's not comfortable or strange it's just awful and I want it to stop.

"They aren't even your children?" he whispers, but it's not a quiet sound it's harsh to my ears and full of disgust.

"No, I'm gay, Edward. Alice knows that. I love her, but I'm not _in_ love with her. There's no way I'd be able to give her children."

He cuts me off before I can complete my train of thought. "So this Garrett is just what, your baby's daddy?"

His words have my blood boiling and my answer is more of a retort, "No, he's more than that. Edward, it's the sixties for crying out loud! Have you looked outside? Times have changed; it's okay to be with more than one person. Our arrangement is built on love and trust. I love Garrett, he loves Alice and Alice loves me."

"So you're all fucking each other, then? It's just one massive orgy in front of this child of yours or his or whatever the fuck sick 'arrangement' this is between all of you?" he interrupts once more and I slam my drink down.

I can't believe the way he's reacting to this. Then again, I should. _He_ is the one still married. _He_ is the one with three children of his own living this complete lie of a life when there are opportunities now to change that. To be who you want to be and he's not. He's hiding.

I tell him as much and he's pinned me against the wall with his hand tight against my throat, and the other pressed hard on my shoulder in a heartbeat, and I'm finding it hard to breathe.

"I'm not a fucking pervert, Whitlock."

I don't know where I find my voice, because he's pressing so hard on my windpipe I'm finding it hard to breathe but I do. "No, but you liked fucking me."

His fist meets my cheek so close to my eye socket I pass out with the pain of it. When I come around, he's gone. All traces of him, including the Zippo lighter.

I'm not sure if I'm happy or sad that I no longer have something of his to hold.

 **~~Scandal for Makenna, Masen & Stanley~~**  
_(Page 24 of the Hollywood Citizen News)  
_ … Masen Jr. arrested for solicitation with young male on the corner of…

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	4. 1978

For ten years I don't see him. I don't hear about him because he's forced to leave the firm, in the most quiet of ways. I don't pity him, even when I hear through the grapevine about his quickie divorce. I don't think about him because I train myself not to.

He was something to me once.

But I don't want him to be anymore.

I focus my life on Alice and Garrett and our children. I focus my life on opening an advertising agency on my own; we aren't half as big as our competitors, but we have our hand in a few different markets that others do not.

Life remains relatively simple. As the years go on, Garrett realizes that he loves Alice more than me, that she is enough. Our relationship changes, but we are family all the same. Alice and I get a divorce and I give her away to the man that has been my best friend and other half and kiss them both when Garrett takes her hand in his own. I have relationships, though none that last and none that match either what I had with Garrett or with _him._

I'm not lonely, though I am alone. I live in that same apartment and I buy out the one next door, making it more of a home with a room for my children to stay, and I'm happy.

And as much as I tell myself that my life is full, that I have or could have anything I want...

I still feel that ache for the missing piece.

That part of my chest that throbs when I see how Garrett and Alice look at each other across the room. The lump I have to swallow around in my throat when I watch Sandy and Danny kiss at the end of Grease. Even when I listen to Babs singing about not being brought flowers anymore, I can't help but shed a tear.

I tell myself I'm fine. Yet I want that love that I once had. I had loved Garrett and Alice, but the love I had with _him_ was so much more. It had to be, because missing him, hurting like I did even though he hurt me, had to mean something.

When the phone rings out of the blue one night, I answer without thinking about who could possibly be on the other end of the line.

"Jay?"

And I'm floored. I fall back into the armchair that I haven't let Alice re-cover and I'm not breathing, because _no one_ calls me that. No one, but him.

He sighs and it's more like the breathing out of someone holding a lungful of smoke. My mind wanders and in the seconds between his words I'm picturing his lips and his cigars and that familiar hollow and fill of his cheeks.

"Jasper?" he calls again and I'm still unable to speak.

"I guess it's better that I talk first anyway." He pauses and again the sound of in and out is heard across the wires and what appears to be the distinct noise of a car traveling down the street.

So he's outside. Somewhere, but outside nonetheless.

"I was in town and I thought…" he stops and I can hear him berate himself slightly and then he starts again, stronger. "No, I told myself I'd be honest with you this time around. I've been living here for six months now. For six months I've been working up the courage to call or see you. But I figured you wouldn't want to see me, so a phone call might help that. I actually thought you'd hang up as soon as you heard my voice." He chuckles lightly.

But I do not.

"You haven't yet so I guess, I guess this is okay? Is it okay? Is it okay that I called?" he's asking and I'm hovering between answering when he just pushes on.

"You don't have to talk; I can do all of that. I've got a lot to say and I'm sure you do too but if you're at least on the other end of the line maybe I can get started." Another pause, another deep breath in and rushed out.

He's definitely smoking.

"I'm sorry, Jay. I'm so damn sorry that I hurt you. And not only with the way I treated you so long ago, but with the words I said. I had no right to judge the life you led here after I left. I had no right at all, and for that I'm sorry."

I count the beats of my heart as they thump in my chest. They're out of time with my breath, nearly double their normal rate as I clutch the phone tightly in my hand, pressing it to my ear.

The ache that I thought I was doing so well ignoring is pounding now and I know it's because of this voice on the phone. It doesn't even matter what he's saying it's the mere fact that its _him_.

"I can't believe I hit you. You have - you have no idea how sick I felt about that, Jay. How I still feel. I sat there after I came to my senses and realized you weren't opening your eyes and I lowered you to the floor. I sat beside you and watched your face swell and I'm so sorry, Jay. I'm so, so sorry. I know I probably shouldn't have left you like that. You could have had a concussion, but I was so disgusted in myself that I had to leave. I couldn't imagine you wanting to talk to me again."

Again a pause. A beat.

And I say nothing.

His breath is harsh and sounds like it's being forced out his nostrils and I imagine the smoke and how it would form curls around his face. Would there be more silver there now like my own? I mean, we were older men of nearly fifty now, no longer the young lovers of our twenties and definitely not the family men of middle age either.

Hearing his voice, his admissions, makes me feel like I'm that young man again, standing in this room with his arms wrapped around me and a glass of scotch in my hand. If I close my eyes, I can feel him here with me.

All from the sound of his voice.

"Edward," I speak before I realize I am. "Where are you?"

He's the one that is quiet then and a second later after clearing his throat he finds his voice. "I'm actually across the street. Like I said, I didn't know whether to call or drop by and see you."

"Come up."

And he hangs up without saying goodbye.

I replace the phone in its cradle and quickly study the space around me. None too untidy, my housekeeper is fantastic at respecting my neat and orderly wishes. The magazines are stacked on the coffee table. The drinks replenished on the bar, one bottle of my favorite vodka that mostly lies untouched and a new bottle of scotch that I drink even less than I do its clear liquid neighbor. I haven't had much to toast about or drink to, so the crystal ware that he brought me for my birthday so very long ago is hardly used at all anymore. My bed is made with fresh satin sheets. The shag pile rug that Alice insisted my home needed is soft underfoot and I wonder if I should put my shoes back on, considering I've been walking around in my stockings as I'm wont to do when home alone.

I'm nervous even though I just asked him up and considering changing my clothes even though I'm just wearing my regular suit that I haven't really changed that much since I first put one on in the early fifties.

I like style, I like things that are timeless and bell bottoms in suits are just wrong.

As I empty my ashtray into the garbage there is a knock at the door.

I stop and nearly drop the Murano glass onto the floor. He's here. He's really here and when I open that door, it won't be just the ghost of a memory I see, it will be him.

I wipe my sticky palms on my pant legs as I walk to the door and I resist looking through the peephole because a fishbowl round view of him won't be enough. Unlocking the bolt and chain, I slowly turn the handle and step back, and then he's there.

His eyes slowly drift up my body and I can feel it from my sock encased toes to the tips of my ash blonde curls. The corners of his berry lips lift into a familiar awkward smile and I can see the hesitance, the nervous anxiety he feels just by being here. I want to be hard on him, because he broke my heart as well as my cheekbone. I want to be cold and harsh and uncaring, because his words hurt just as much as his actions and still affect me now a decade later.

I want to be all these things, but my arms reach out and I'm pulling him against me and holding him close. Edward is stiff for a second then he's weeping into my shoulder. His tears of remorse or even relief are wetting my shirt through, warm on my skin. I hold him and he collapses against me, but with his arms around my waist it's almost as if he is holding me up too.

My fingers are running through his much longer and shaggier auburn waves and I can hear him whispering, almost an affirmation or even a Hail Mary, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry." Over and over again.

He smells amazing, a little like the rain that was playing on my window an hour or so ago and I wonder how long he'd been out there, attempting to make that call. He made the first move, he's apologized and he's here and it's time I made the second. I pull back slightly, taking his face in my hands and brush the tears that still run freely down his cheeks away with my thumbs.

He is still the same, yet more rugged, and with what looks like a two-day growth gracing his jaw he's even sexier than I remember. I'm staring into these big green eyes of his, noting how the yellow that filters softly over the whites are crisscrossed with tendrils of red indicating how tired he is. There are new lines and furrows scattered in the obvious places that happen with age, his brow, his eyelids and the creases around his mouth to name a few. Yet he is still my Edward.

I'm sure I look just as life worn as he does. Maybe less because it's obvious the West Coast sun has damaged his skin. When he smiles, as he does now, as we just stare at each other and I'm sure he's taking in all the differences in my appearance also.

My heart is now beating faster for a different reason and when I can put a name on why, it makes me feel even more young and foolish than I should be at this age.

I'm nervous.

I shouldn't be, I have nothing to be nervous about. He has come here to see me, to talk to me. He won't care that my previously warm blonde curls have faded now to include many more patches of white than I'd like. I know the clarity of my once stormy ocean blues are now a lot duller than before, I also know they are easier to see because of the large round tortoiseshell glasses I have to wear just to see. I know that my previously lean body has a little more paunch than punch and my hands look awful with an early onset of arthritis in my knuckles.

I'm not perfect.

Yet neither is he.

"Jay." He stops and waits for a reaction that I don't give him. I'm pleased to hear him call me that once more. I never thought any one ever would again.

A door open and closes in the hall and there are footsteps on the stairs. I remember where we are, in the middle of my door, caught between the hall and my apartment. My hand slides down from his face, until I catch his fingertips with mine and I pull him inside. He follows and I can almost feel him at my back, his head turning this way and that, exploring the domain that was once ours and ours alone with a keen eye for anything new and different.

I reluctantly disengage myself from him to pour us both a drink, I assume he wants one because I know I do, badly. It's remarkable how easy I remember the exact way to pour it - three ice cubes and fill the glass one third with scotch before a dash of soda water. I listen as his feet pad lightly about the space and wish I had thought to put some music on. I have that new Beatles White album that a friend from London left with me a month ago and I haven't stopped playing it. Edward was always into the latest music; I'm sure he'd know who John, Paul, George and Ringo are. Thunder rolls from outside and the light rain from before is slightly louder, pattering on the window panes with a regular, almost musical cadence providing a soundtrack to our meeting.

The sound of leather being sunk into breaks the monotonous natural noises as I pour myself a vodka because I know tonight I'll need it. I walk over, handing him his drink and he smirks a little, I'm hoping it's because I've made it right. Not that I'm doubting myself because even though much time has passed since I've had a reason to fix scotch like this for anyone but myself, I could never forget how he likes it.

I sit carefully on the edge of the second armchair that is to the side of the first, the one Edward is now occupying and let the first sip of liquid burn its way down my throat.

We are silent and still but it feels right and the air is expectant with what needs to be said, what might be said floating between us. Finally, after both our drinks are sufficiently consumed, Edward is the first to break the quiet by reaching out to rest his hand on top of mine where it is lying on the arm of the chair.

His touch, so light, so simple, has my body a-buzz.

"Jay," he starts and my name is filled with warmth, like the hold that we have on each other now is providing to my skin. "I am sorry. I've regretted what I said and did for far too long and I was too much of a coward to ever say anything before."

I interrupt before he can ask because I know what he is going to say, what this is all leading to. "I forgive you, Edward. I forgave you a long time ago. It's true, I've never forgotten, but what good is there in holding onto words and actions from so long ago? I know you were scared then, you might even be scared now, but I won't apologize for the life I've led, even if it made you uncomfortable."

Edward shakes his head. "I was in such a different place then, Jay. You made it sound so easy and I was jealous. I was so jealous of what you had, being able to be who you wanted to be and not hide behind walls like I had been. Like I still do." He lowers his chin and I can't see his eyes behind this awful mess of hair that he's sporting.

I reach over and brush the strands out of the way so I can see his eyes once more. "You didn't have much choice, Edward. I knew what your father was like."

"Don't give me excuses, Jasper. I knew what I was getting into, marrying Bella. I thought that by moving to the other side of the country I could have a little more freedom. That I could lead this double life and still be the husband and son they expected. I never knew who I was without you, I never who I was period, I suppose." He pauses and places his drink that is now virtually empty onto the little round table in front of us. Edward scoots forward and takes my hand once more and I let him, because he obviously needs that physical reassurance that I will listen, and I like his skin on my skin.

"When I talked to you that night, you made it all sound so easy. You've always known who you are, Jay. Even when we first worked together, you never made a big deal about who you were screwing or what girl you wanted to take home. I wished I could be like you. For years it's all I wanted. Then I got clumsy in LA. I didn't care anymore after I left you that night, all bruised and broken. I lost everything and I lost myself for a while. That's why it's taken me so long to get here. I needed to figure it all out and, I honestly didn't think you'd ever speak to me again," Edward finishes softly and his hand is light within mine.

I grip his fingers tightly in my own. "Enough, Edward. It's in the past and you can't live there anymore. I won't hear any more apologies from those lips. Tell me about now, let's live in the present. Have you seen the 'Adult Toys' campaign Dodge brought out?"

Then we talk shop and there are laughs at friends of old and good-natured digs at campaigns we've each headed in the past. He discusses working freelance, not staying in one place for too long and loving the freedom of this. I tell him about running my own company and how much I've learned in doing so. Before long, the hours pass with more refills of drinks and touches that don't go anywhere past friendly.

Too soon, he's checking his watch and remarking how late it is. I stand and rub at my knee, an old baseball injury that never fails to act up when I've been sitting too long. Just as I think it's okay to stand on, my leg buckles underneath me, but instead of hitting the floor, my body presses against something hard and warm.

My chest is so close to his own, it's almost as if I can feel his heart beating as quickly as my own. I can definitely feel his breath quicken as I slowly raise my head. His scent, the quick bobbing of his Adam's apple, the slight scruff to his jaw, it all fills my senses to overflowing. I can't stop when I see his tongue flick out to wet his lips, my head lifts just enough that I can feel his breath puff over my cheek. My eyelids close as I feel the tip of his nose brush against mine, his hands that stilled on my hips shift toward the small of my back and my own slide up his arms and rest on his shoulders, holding him tighter against me.

Finally, I can take it no longer, my eyelids flicker open and I'm staring straight into the green and silver I've never forgotten. I can't see the lines that surround them, or the mass of red spiderweb veins that mottle the white. I can't see anything but the love that _still_ lies within their depths and echoes not only in my own, but in the ever persistent beating of my heart. He ducks his head down just enough for the slightest of brushes of skin on skin but it's not enough, it can't be enough. My fingertips slide into his hair, still as soft as I remember, and I pull him down and smile against his lips as I deepen our kiss.

This feels right. This feels amazingly good and when we break away, breathless after tongues have tasted and hands have reacquainted themselves with places that have missed their touch, I'm surprised by the worry in his stare.

His eyes swivel towards the door and back to me in a move so fast I wonder if I saw it at all. I feel his body lean slightly in the same manner and I realize he doesn't know whether I want him to go.

"Stay," I say, and every part of me wishes that he will. Hopes that this time will be the last time that he has to hesitate about voicing what he wants.

"If you want me to."

I laugh lightly, brushing my fingertips down the side of his face, cupping his cheek in my hand before bringing my lips to his once more. "I've always wanted you to. I never wanted you to leave."

"I don't ever want to again."

The love we make that night is perfect and I know it'll be the first, not the last of many more.

~~ _ **NY Times Obituaries~~**_

Edward Anthony Masen b. 06.20.1933 – d. 07.13.2028 & Jasper Maurice Whitlock b. 21.08.1935 – d. 07.13.2028 passed away today in their sleep, together as they had been in their hearts always. Beloved parents to six, grandparents to eleven and great grandparents to eight. Private cremation. The family asks that donations be made to the AIDS Family Services Centre.

  


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